219145 Days
by elmopll
Summary: Spencer leaves Rosewood with a broken heart and a bang, then avoids her old friends for more than six years, trying to forget everything. But, when life, fate, and her boss being an involuntary asshole gets in the way, she's forced to look the past in the eye all over again. Even if the past doesn't realize it. T cause DANGER.
1. Maelstrom

I want you to imagine to yourself a room.

Not just any room. There's something special in particular about this one.

You'll find out what that is later, maybe. If I'm in a generous mood. But right now, just imagine the room, OK?

Let me give you a few little pointers. The walls are all white, and the carpeting on the floor's a dull grey. It's warm though, in the winter months. Nice to lie on, or even now, just wiggle your socked toes against and feel the friction. It's scuffed and stained, and covered in bits of paper at the moment. But still. Nice.

To the right of the room, there's a huge window that's swinging open and out, casually. It gives a stunning view across into the neighbourhood, right over people's houses. If you sit by the window, you can look down into the village, see pretty much everything from being so high up. Houses form a chastity belt around the evergreen hill. They trace the way deep into the town, where, if you squint, you can just make out the silver sheen of cars rolling away. Light glints off them, turns them into hurtling stars, zooming back into the evening sky.

Behind you now, in the room. Turn around. There's a white dresser, littered with unfamiliar scraps of someone's life. A roll of deodorant. A tinny red alarm clock. Various books. A stack of CDs- Coldplay, Florence and the Machine, Sia. A wind-up torch, carefully stashed near at hand.

The most interesting thing, however, is the memory board on the right. Photos take up most of the room, beautiful girls beaming into the camera, some acting shocked, pouting, pulling crazy faces. A drawing is stuck across one of these photographs- a girl with dark plaited hair and a serious expression, gazing down. It's been drawn in black pigment liner, by someone with obvious talent. A caption is scrawled across the bottom-

"Ah, the number of times I see you with this expression per day... Hopefully not this one! Happy birthday. #TEAMSPARIA xx"

As well as the drawing, necklaces hang freely across the memory board. A certificate is pinned up the top, curling at the edges but still proudly proclaiming that "Spencer Hastings" had received The Principal's Award for Outstanding Effort In Chosen Field in May this year. Next to the certificate, a concert ticket is stuck, and various scraps of paper with doodles on them of yet more smiling girls. A photo hangs near the edge, a blue-eyed boy with a square chin and dimples, hugging a slim, pale girl.

She bears a remarkable resemblance to the girl in the drawing.

Turn away from the dresser now. Look in front of you. A large cork board front of a white desk. The cork board is riddled with neon post-it notes, reminders written in black marker. One- "SUITCASE PACKED!" is circled with red pen. Obviously crucial.

Below the dresser, the white desk stands, covered in folders bulging with textbooks. Pens litter the flat surface, along with scribbled diagrams, sample exam papers, notes, practice essays, and timetables. A pair of headphones hangs precariously off the ledge, attached to a silver iPod. Oxford English Dictionary is being used as a paperweight for Managing Time- A Student's Guide. Notebooks are strewn around the room, along with highlighters, rulers, calculators, staplers.

It's a bit of a bombsite. But this is Spencer Hastings, stressed out.

So, on top of all the paper and pens flying everywhere, there is an abundant amount of takeaway coffee cups lying across the room, stashed away in rows under the desk, in drawers, filling the waste-paper bin.

On the desk surrounded by cords and paper, stands a simple typewriter. You dab a key, curious, and a clacking sound emerges. A sheet of paper protrudes out of it, a fibrous tongue. The letters are smudged from wet ink, but still legible, and you gently pull it out of the machine.

It's really none of your business, what's written on there. You know it. Everyone knows it.

But you're filled with such a captivating desire to read it- curiosity? No, something far more overwhelming. Every atom in your body is commanding you to read the letter. Your morals are faced with your will, and they come up short shrift. You don't understand why- why do you have to read this letter? What compulses you to read this thing? Why is your body so fixed on reading something that's totally none of your concern?

You look around guiltily, but, no one is there to point the finger of blame at you.

Okay. Just this once, then.

It begins like this:

_**Dear Emily. **_

_**I'm writing this letter to you because, as normal, I have a shitload to say. I suppose you don't have anything to say to me, and that's fine. I don't really expect you to. You've never said anything before, don't start now. It's not going to be things I want to hear, I know that. It's just going to be more bitter reality and logic. **_

_**Usually, I like logic. That's the reason for the entire "Jane Bond" thing, isn't it? I'm too logical, too analytic and clinical for my own good. I'm doomed to always play the role of the detective, or so I thought. And then I realized, you know, logic can be your biggest enemy. **_

_**Especially when logic is used against you. Especially when the truth, stark and ugly, stares into your eyes. And you have to swallow down the tears and just nod and pretend like it never happened, like the truth never hurt you. Not even a little bit. **_

_**The ridiculous thing is, after what you said to me, I tried to forget. I really did. But, what I've discovered, is that it all comes thudding back, time and time again. I'll go to a dance, swill whiskey, and end up with some boy's tongue down my throat at the end of the night. The next day I'll tell you all about how it was so much fun, that I want to do it all over again, that it was the best time of my life. **_

_**It never was. It was always just me being pathetic. I try to tell myself that I had a blast, that it was fantastic. Unforgettable. But in a week I've blocked everything about it out of my memory with disgust. You asked me a couple of days ago what the name was of one of the nightclubs I'd been in last weekend. **_

_**When I said I couldn't remember, I wasn't joking with you. I genuinely couldn't. My brain had completely shut down, screened it out. **_

_**Do you really want to know the best time of my life? Because, I think you know what's coming, and I can see you reading this with a familiar look of dread and apprehension on your face. I'm sorry, but I have to say this. I don't even know why I have to say it, but I do. **_

_**It was a year ago. A fathomless blue sky, a dazzling sun shining down onto the rocky outcrop we were sitting on. **_

_**A year ago, and I was so juvenile, so stupid, I can't believe I did what I did. You know what happened, we don't need to go into details. But I remember running down that hill feeling freer than the wind, and as you sung Lady Gaga, I wanted to dance and scream for the pure joy of it. I couldn't even understand why I felt this way. **_

_**So then we went back to my parent's house. And we did it again. And again. And everytime, you'd look me in the eye, and say "Just as friends. Just as friends."**_

_**"Of course." I agreed. I never imagined it'd be anything different. **_

_**Two months later and I admitted to you I liked you, in that way. **_

_**What can I say. I'm bad with rejection. **_

_**Three months later and you noticed I wasn't sleeping or eating anymore. You got me to Dr Sullivan again, thinking it was A haunting me. **_

_**It wasn't. **_

_**Four months later and I was sitting propped against the bath wall with a handful of pills in my hand, crying, wanting to swallow, but never being able to. **_

_**You stopped me, without even saying or doing anything. **_

_**Five months later and I got drunk and messaged you on Facebook. I argued with you. Swore. Fought drunkenly. The next day was awkward. A game of pretence. **_

_**"Nothing ever happened". **_

_**Six months later and I tried to move on. I found Toby. I told you, told myself, told everyone I'd fallen in love with him, and there was no going back, I loved him utterly. With all my heart. **_

_**You were happy for me. You had Paige. You had no feelings for me, whatsoever, apart from being your estranged, defensive best friend. **_

_**I hadn't moved on, as you may have guessed by now. I wasn't over you. Sure, Toby made me happy, but every time his hands roamed, I thought of you and felt sorrow deep in my heart. I couldn't shake off your presence, your words- they haunted me in bed, alone or with company. You visited me every night and laughed at the sad girl left behind, mooning over someone she could never have. **_

_**I had sex with him. I thought it would shake you away from me, the naked pleasure of the "dirty deed". **_

_**But the next morning, I saw Paige kiss you against the lockers, and I ran into the bathrooms and threw up. **_

_**You never liked me, let alone loved me, in that way. I've realized that now. You were upset over Alison, still, and Maya was out of the picture at straight camp. So, in desperation, maybe even in depravity, you came to me. **_

_**I was easy, wasn't I? The straight girl. Who wouldn't develop any feelings towards you. **_

_**Who would have thought the sweet one of us could be so incredibly cruel. **_

_**I never realized that I was "easy", until now. I've seen the way you look at me. And I've seen the way you look at Paige. **_

_**A vast amount of difference. **_

_**I hate her. Every time she touches you, tucks a curl of your hair behind your ear, holds your hand, kisses you- I can't take it. I look away, I smile, I change the subject, but inside I am shattering into a thousand shards of glass and tearing myself to pieces. I am a hopeless mess. **_

_**I love you. I know that for a fact, I knew it ever since the first day on the rocky outcrop.**_

_**I know it every day I see you. I know it when you lecture me for drinking too much coffee and get these adorable cranky eyebrows. I know it when I try to teach you how to play lacrosse and you mess up, but keep working at it, again and again, until you've got it. I know it when you're with me, and you touch my arm and I feel electricity sparking off my skin. I know it when you roll your eyes, when you laugh so hard you put your head down on your desk, when you bite your lip cause you're stressed. I know it when we sit across from each other in English, and I sense you looking at me. **_

_**What are you thinking, I wonder?**_

_**Definitely not what I wish you'd think. **_

_**I'm handing you this letter because in a few days, I'm off to UPenn. That's right, I got in. No, I didn't tell anyone. It's a big surprise. Congratulations. You're the first to find out. **_

_**So, I'm leaving. And what better way to leave than go out with a overemotional bang. **_

_**I needed to tell you this, so you'll know. I don't know how you'll react, but, it's probably a good thing I'm not there to see it. But I just needed to tell you. **_

_**Have a good life, Emily. **_

_**I'll miss you. Stay true to yourself, you amazing, beautiful, adorable bitch, because that's what made me fall in love with you.**_

_**Please don't try to contact me. I'm blocking you off my phone, and off Facebook. **_

_**Trust me, this is what's best for both of us. **_

_**I love you, Em.  
Goodbye. **_

_**Spencer **_

The letter is found, the next day, in Emily Field's letterbox.

Pam Fields drops it into her room naively, calling, "Letter for you!" in a sing-song voice.

Emily bemusedly slides her thumb along the seal to open it, confused at the lack of address on the cover, the cover simply typewritten "_Emily"_

And approximately five minutes later, at 9:47am, her mother hears a strangled scream from her bedroom, and rushes in, a flurry of frantic movements. "Em, Em, what's wrong?"

All she says, holding the letter, shaking despite the balmy temperature, is,

"Oh my god."

* * *

_**SIX YEARS LATER**_

_**Chicago, Illinois**_

_**Valley Heights Apartments. 1373 North Milwaukee Avenue. **_

_Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed. Everything else is public relations. _

_George Orwell_

"I suppose y' never really realize how much blood is in a human body until y' see it spilt all over the pavement like that."

There was a pause after this reflection from the weary-eyed man on the opposite side of the table. Beefy fingers cradled one side of his bloodhound face, tilting his flabby chin up towards the plain roof of his home. He sighed heavily, and shook his head, his jowls trembling. "Broken glass, blood, indescribable things. Everywhere. It was terrible."

A sharp young voice coughed politely at the other end of the table. "Mr Elliot." A firm yet kind tone. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this, but I need you to describe exactly what you saw to me."

Timothy Elliot was forty-five and didn't look a day over seventy. His round girth bulged out from his cavernous trousers, barely encased by a shabby chequered shirt and a threadbare tie. He'd obviously dressed up for the occasion. He hacked wetly into a tissue and rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, I've got this goddamned cough. Mah wife thinks it's tuberculosis, but we can't get down to the doctor to check..."

He trailed off, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly, dull pupils refocused. "I'll describe it to yeh. Okay, urhm, it was a Tuesday mornin'. I was sitting out on my verandah getting ready for work."

The young voice scribbled something in her notepad. "Can I ask where you work, Mr Elliot?"

"Is that related to th' interview?"

"No, just interested."

The man puffed up his chest, evidently pleased to give the information away with lashings of pride. "At the gas station down the road yonder. Have been for the past twenty years of m' life."

The young voice nodded. "Okay. Please continue."

"I was lookin' out into another beautiful Chicago morning, sunny day and all. And I stepped out to water the wife's plants just for a little sec. There was a loud bang, the, eh, a gunshot. And when I looked up... somethin', somethin' dark an' huge fell down past m' window. And I couldn't do nothing- it was all so fast... I jest kinda froze up. And that was when I heard the big ol' thump against the ground, big and wet and crunching thump."

The voice stayed silent. Timothy wiped his sweaty forehead with a wodge of tissue. "So, I panicked. I went and ran downstairs to see what it could be, and m' wife was screamin' at me, cause she'd seen it to, asking me what it was. And I was saying "I don't know, I don't know"... but we both knew what it was by then."

"So I got down the stairs, and ran through the door, and she was just lyin' on the ground... I knew she was a goner by the time, Chrissakes, her neck was snapped sideways. But her eyes, her eyes were open... and I swear to God, ma'am, they was lookin' right at me. And that wasn't right. Creeped me out something major."

The sharp young voice nodded. "And you knew her."

"Course I knew her. I know just bout everybody in this buildin'. But she, she was a real mystery that one. The wife loved to talk about her."

"Why?"

"Oh, she was always a bit of a loner. Never had anybody round, never did nothing neighbourly, always keepin' herself to herself. That's why I ain't gone answer your question- why I think she did it, cause I wouldn't know. I was just the first there."

"Understood, Mr Elliot." A pause. "Did you know any other information about her?"

"I knew she had a sister- she came round to visit sometimes, never said a word to anyone her or nothin'. But we figured they were sisters cause the two of them looked goddamn identical. And I knew she was in the 'lympic team as well. Not that she told us or anythin', I found her picture in the paper one time, after the Games. And damn, I said to m'wife, that looks just like Kristin next door. Next thing we realize, it is her."

Elliot trailed off at that point, massaging his leathery cheek. The sharp young voice jabbed the tape recorder that had been whirring the whole time, slipping it into her pocket. "Thank you Mr Elliot, that was all I needed."

"A pleasure, really, ma'am. Are you gonna use m' interview now?"

"You can expect to see it in the Chicago Sun-Times tomorrow, maybe."

Elliot bristled with pride. "This bein' the first time I've ever been interviewed by a journalist and all. I bet the wife'll pin it up on the fridge."

An awkward silence swallowed the air. The sharp young voice checked her watch and stood to leave. "You take care of yourself ma'am." Elliot rumbled.

"Thank you, Mr. Elliot. You too."

The door closed behind the young voice's skinny back, and she sighed, flipping open her notepad and marking a sharp cross by the name "Timothy Elliot". He'd hardly been useful, just shedding the same light on Kristin Lochte that everyone in Chicago knew- Olympic gymnast, suddenly and unexpectedly committing suicide for no apparent reason. "A real bright promise", her coach had said miserably. "A star of the future", ESPN had called her.

She'd shot herself from on her apartment roof without leaving a suicide note or any sign of previous depression in her flat, according to police. But the sister Elliot had mentioned was a new lead. Still, a simple report would be published in the Chicago Sun-Times tomorrow- an emotive one about talent going to waste in "an unforseen suicide". Yada yada.

But there was a hint of anonymity, of mystery, to the suicide that alighted a spark of curiousity in the sharp young voice's heart. Of course, most experienced journos would have dropped the case already, and would have moved on to far more interesting subjects, such as the deputy Mayor's sex scandal.

But most experienced journos didn't have the same kind of detective experience as Spencer Hastings did.

That detective experience could have been the entire reason Spencer gave her entire family a mild heart attack, choosing "cheap, trashy" journalism as her career of choice rather than the much-expected law path. Her mother had literally ranted and raved at her for a straight hour when Spencer announced that she had switched her college electives to one which favoured the newspaper career.

"It's literally everything you've hated, all through your teenage years." Veronica Hastings had pleaded. "I don't understand. Journalism is against everything you've ever stood for!"

"Mom." Spencer had fired back, as her mother collapsed into the couch, exhausted. "_Bad _journalism is against everything I've ever stood for."

And in all respects, Spencer Hastings practiced good journalism. She was clever, driven, daring, confident, and asked the right questions. She made an art out of sniffing out bullshit. Her juvenile tendency to jump to conclusions had disappeared over the past six years- replaced by a cooler, calculating logical adult.

She wasn't sure at which point she realized her desire to practice media rather than law. But she'd known it from the minute she'd picked up a heavy law textbook and looked inside. She hadn't wanted to be stuck in oaken rooms, arguing whether someone was innocent or not. She wanted to be out there, finding the people who weren't innocent, and bringing them to light. She wanted to interview people, find the facts amongst the lies, give the world the information she did.

She could see where her mother was coming from- it was ironic that she had spent her entire teenage years trying to hide secrets from the world's (or rather, A's) snooping eyes, and now she'd made the decision to take a career which entitled finding out other people's secrets and sharing them with the world. Not that she was ever going to be a tabloid journalist.

But she reasoned with herself. Reading and writing were amongst her favourite things to do- she watched the news and read the paper every day, a residual habit from old paranoia over herself being in the headlines. She had always been the "detective" of their old group- due to an insatiable need to always find out more about "A", about the secrets that Rosewood possessed.

And now, in her job, at age twenty-four, she was satisfied. Going out to work every day gave her a small sense of pride, of accomplishment. _Screw you, Mom and Dad. I'm going out to disappoint you yet again in a job I love. _

Her relationships with her family had crumbled over time. None of them could really recover from the shock of Spencer being a journalist- and nonetheless, a goddamn _good _one. Once she got out of college, she'd immediately applied to newspapers around America, as far away from Philadelphia as possible. Chicago had offered. She'd gladly accepted.

Being a journalist was probably just another act of defiance against her parents, actually. As was her new image. Her father had one night talked about how much he hated short hair on girls. A new challenge. The next day, Spencer waltzed away with a pixie Emma Watson-style cut, returning to campus with a smug grin on her face and the memory of Mr Hastings choking when he saw her.

She hadn't talked to her parents in two years, but, she still kept her hair cropped in the same style. It suited her, really. She looked older, more business like- yet sexier.

The other little acts of provocation were too numerous to count. She had started smoking at one point, although now she couldn't stand the smell. She drove a blue Vespa rather than a "normal, safe" car. She wore sunglasses and leather jackets almost permanently when she wasn't working, and once dated an Italian rally car driver.

However, it was her who solely knew that he was an avid fan of poetry, and read Sigmund Freud's works in the bath. Her parents only knew his career, and were consumed by the shame.

Melissa had stepped out of the picture of Spencer's life long ago, moving permanently to Philadelphia and not even bothering to send Christmas cards. Her father, divorced, had taken the flat in New York, as her mother had continued on in Rosewood. Any news from them as of late had failed to come through.

_And I've never been happier for it. _

Leaving Rosewood behind had been a hard thing to do- but it was utterly worth it. She had guiltily left her good friends behind, true. And she still missed them now and then. They'd all fallen out of contact, as time makes people do. She'd heard Aria had become the artist/poet she'd always dreamed of being. And the last time she'd talked to Hanna, the bubbly blonde girl had revealed she worked as a fashion writer in Vogue.

She was happy for both of them. They deserved to do well, to gain as much success as they possibly could. And she was sure that despite the time, they both felt the same way about Spencer. When the staff of the Chicago Sun-Times won a Pulitzer for "Best Breaking News Reporting", Aria was the first to message her congratulations. "_Well done Spence- #TEAMSPARIA is partying tonight! Next stop: winning FIVE PULITZERS FOR BEST JOURNALIST IN THE WORLD! THAT'S MY JANE BOND!"_

She was pretty sure Aria was very drunk, but the thought still counted.

Lost in her reverie about Rosewood, she hadn't even realized she'd already hopped onto her Vespa and was halfway to her work by now. She shook her head, groaning, requiring caffeine. Her brain wasn't working so well today. She was exhausted from a late night review of the Kristin Lochte case.

It was an unusual suicide, for sure. Firstly, Lochte shooting herself, then ensuring her actual death by falling off a building. The gun was found on the apartment roof, covered with her fingerprints, but that didn't convince Spencer. The coroner report claimed her body showed no signs of a struggle, but her clothing was torn and ragged. The shot had been fired against the heart- whereas most suicides are through the brain.

Here's the interesting part. The coroner had said "It is unaware what time the shot occured". So it could have been while she was falling, or while she was up on the roof. Seeing as it was unlikely she could shoot herself in mid-air, and since Elliot had said he'd heard a shot before she fell past his window, the police had assumed she'd shot herself then fallen.

But Elliot's flat was only on the third floor of a ten-storey building. So the theory still remained open- that she could have shot herself or been shot as she fell.

These details niggled at Spencer. She wanted to talk to the sister- the mysterious, unnamed, never-before-heard-of sister. She needed an address, a phone number. And she knew the people to talk to for her to get it.

She pulled up outside her work building, her head awhirl with ideas and details, and pulled off her helmet, resting it on top of the Vespa's handlebars. A short guy with slicked hair and a slicker smile held the door open for her. Spencer gave him a nod of appreciation. "Thanks, Jimmy." She mumbled.

"Anytime, Poe." Jimmy replied, eyes like an adoring puppy.

"Poe" was her nickname at the office. Hardly anyone called her Spencer where she worked- she even doubted some of the rookies knew Poe wasn't her real name. It was given to her by their resident Art Journalist, Amy, after comparing Spencer to Edgar Allan Poe. "You're both moody, poetic and scarily clever. And occasionally depressing and grumpy."

Despite Spencer's original resistance to the nickname, Amy had ensured its growth until everyone in the office called her it, despite most of them not knowing its origins. Even the editors employed the term. She still growled at Amy sometimes- but deep down, she enjoyed the comparison. Poe was one of her favourite poets of all time.

Spencer squeezed into the lift, crammed against a dozen environmental journalists who'd just returned from their lunch break. It was a hot summer day, and the "hippie-sters" as Amy called them, were none too fond of deoderant. She was holding her breath with a pained wince the entire ride.

The seventh floor, her stop, was a round room filled with a frenzy of activity. Desks formed a ivory semi-circle around either sides of the room, a horizontal space in between for people to pass through. The centre of the room was around the oaken circular editorial desk, the powerhouse. The people round that desk could make or break a journalist's career. With a little red pen they had the power to destroy your entire livelihood.

It was _really_ important not to piss them off.

But on the outskirts of the semi-circle was Spencer's desk, situated two rows across from Amy's, five metres from the photocopier and a short walk to the crappy coffee machine. She headed towards it. The floor was tiled and squeaked under her flats, making some heads turn at the noise.

Smiles and "what's-up" nods were exchanged amongst her co-workers, with one particularly enthusiastic wave from Amy, until Spencer collapsed into a soft black chair, yawning. A coffee was needed, but right now, she wanted to find out everything she could on Kristin Locht's sister. She opened up a silver Macbook and began Googling.

Twenty minutes later, she was poring through files about Kristin's success before the suicide- but no mention of a sister. Or any family, for that matter. She began to wonder if Timothy Elliot was more than a little bit senile for all of his forty-five years. Did such a sister actually exist?

A polite cough sounded behind her, and she flinched in her seat, spinning around. "Sorry!" She gabbled. "Oh, you surprised me."

Spencer looked into Amy's grinning face, dimples clearly present in her freckled cheeks. "Hey there."

"Hi." Spencer said briskly, tiredly raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Look what _I _got." Amy childishly waggled a steaming flask in front of Spencer's nose. "Mmm_mmm_. Smells gooooood."

The strong scent of caffeine hit Spencer like an adrenalin shot. "Amy, you are a lifesaver, and I love you so very very much best friend of mine." She blathered, snatching for the flask.

"Whoa there. Not so fast." Amy cruelly yanked her hand back, Spencer's fingertips brushing against the silvery surface. She giggled. "Hold up, girl, I gotta tell you something first."

"Coffee. Then, we can talk. About whatever you want. I've got time."

Amy rolled her eyes, startlingly ultramarine against her pale skin. "This may actually be too much fun to tease you with."

"Amy, you are twenty-four years old."

"Doesn't make it less fun."

"Really? Because I was kind of hoping the bitter reality of how you're a complete child would kick in about now. Evidently not."

"Owch. Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. No coffee for you."

Spencer's teeth set on edge. "Fine. No coffee. I don't care. What did you want to talk to me about?"

" "I don't care?" Man, Poe, I've called you many things but certainly not a liar."

"I've called you many things as well. And I'll call you more unless you give me the goddamn coffee."

"A sudden change of tact is noted."

"Please give me the coffee."

"I knew we would resort to begging eventually. You just have to say the magic word."

Spencer glared at her. "The last time someone told me to say the magic word was when I was six years old."

"Release your inner child."

"Thank. You."

"That wasn't the magic word."

"Why do I even bother being friends with you?"

"My sparkling wit, dazzling personality and vibrant good looks."

"Sparkling wit? You're the least funny person I've ever met."

"I noticed you haven't disagreed with the other two. So you do find me attractive. But then again, who doesn't?"

"Your looks are about as vibrant as a toad with herpes."

"You have to admit, toads do have an innate charm to them."

"You're right. I apologize to the toads."

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!"

"...What?"

"The magic word was "apologize"!"

Spencer's eyes narrowed. "Do I need to apologize to you?"

"No, not today." Amy remarked.

"Oh. Okay. So why was it-"

"Don't _question_ me, mortal. Here. Have your caffeinated beverage and enjoy it." Amy thrust it into her hands.

Spencer drank deeply, sighing with content. Amy watched her boredly. "I did say I had to talk to you about something."

"Mmmmm."

"Something which you're probably going to need to peel your lips off that flask to get the full benefit of."

A long pause. "Mmmmm."

Amy tutted. "It's important news."

Absolute silence while Spencer downed the coffee. Amy began speaking. "We have a new one on the sports side of things. Fresh off the college boat, looks like. She seems okay. Don't think we'll get to work with her much though."

"We're investigative journos, we don't go meddling with bats and balls." Spencer mumbled.

"Lo! She speaks! And with what beauty thine words evoke, for it is the beauty that reflects the state of mine own heart."

"You've got balls on your mind again, Amy."

"Are they ever off my mind?"

"You have the mental age of a pre-pubescent ape."

"A pre-pubescent ape with sparkling wit, dazzling personality and vibrant good looks."

Spencer just snorted. Amy shrugged, laughing. "So, anyways, new journalist. So exciting. She's over there on the sports desk, I think. Actually... she's just turned around... and she appears to be looking... THIS WAY!"

Spencer glared at her friend who was waving her arms above her head frantically in a gesture that was supposed to be welcoming. "Poe! Give me a marker and a piece of paper!"

"Amy, for God's sake-"

"I need to write a message that speaks volumes about my friendly nature!"

Spencer shook her head. Amy was all too prone to doing weird things like this constantly. She was bubbly, spontaneous and always enthusiastic when it came to anything and everything, with seemingly unlimited energy. But, Spencer and her, two complete opposites, had immediately bonded the day Amy had told the guy who constantly boomed top 40 pop across from Spencer's desk that "I just want you to know, I have a gun, and a shovel. And I doubt someone who listens to Carly Rae Jepsen on repeat would be missed."

Spencer liked her style.

But right now, Amy's craziness had swept over her usually sarcastic nature. Spencer sighed, smirking at her insane friend, and pushed out her chair from the desk to get a closer look at the new journalist.

And that was when a nuclear bomb, or close to it, plummeted through the roof and turned the entire office into a timeless abyss.

Spencer's mouth hung open, her tongue transformed into cardboard, her words useless and dull against her teeth. Her limbs were slack, but her stomach was dropping further and further through the roof. Her heart rate slowed, then sped up, faster and faster until it almost popped through Spencer's chest. Her head reeled. Her vision blurred.

She couldn't see properly, a mist shrouding her eyes as she could focus solely on the face looking puzzledly back at her. She couldn't breathe, her lungs crying for air, but her nose and mouth being no longer capable of anything respiring related. Her ears rang. Her palms suddenly grew hideously damp.

Her brain couldn't focus on anything, mind whirring and buzzing and swirling around, always returning, returning, to one sole thought:

_Emily. _

Because the tanned face that was currently laughing at Amy, because the long black soft waves that were currently dancing around brown shoulders, because the familiar yet alien radiant white smile that was currently curving supple skin...

It was Emily's.

She hadn't seen her in six years.

And then her brain finally made a vital connection of synapses, a spark erupting as a legible thought in her mind:

She didn't want to see her now.

Amy was yelling something in Spencer's ear, doll-like hands scrabbling around on her desk for a piece of paper, but Spencer couldn't hear anything aside from her heartbeat thumping like mad and a continous ringing. She shook her head again, slowly, in an effort to clear what fogged her mind.

_I need to get out. _

Praises be, another clear, legible thought.

Her body responded like it was moving through molten chocolate. She pulled herself to a standing position, slowly, slowly, and took a heavy step away, nearly tripping over an electrical cord. Time seemed to warp around her.

She thumped away from her desk, hair standing up on the back of her neck. She could tell Emily's eyes were on her retreating form. And she wanted to scream and run, but everything was in this perpetual haze.

_Please, please, if there's a God, don't let Emily realize it's me. _

_Please, I'm begging you. _

When Spencer was halfway to the verandah that she knew was situated just outside the elevator, created for the simple purpose of giving smoking employees a convenient place to do so, Amy realized what she was doing. "Oi, Poe!" She yelled

When Spencer didn't reply, Amy frowned, and dropped the paper that was in her hands. Throwing Emily a "be right back" gesture, she jogged over to her friend. Stopping just in front of the verandah door, she threw her hands on her hips. "Are you okay?" She asked, worry tinging her voice.

"Huh?" Spencer replied eloquently.

"Are. You. Okay. You look like someone's just walked over your grave!"

"Urgh... I need some fresh air."

"Why?"

"I feel sick." She mumbled.

Amy narrowed her eyes. "You were perfectly fine two minutes ago, Poe. What's really the matter?"

Spencer opened her mouth, and three little words escaped them: words that, the author guarantees, will get you anyone away from you at any time, whatever the situation.

"I'm gonna puke!"

"Oh, God." Amy said quickly, stepping out of her way.

Spencer stumbled forward, wrenching the door handle of the verandah open, to the confused faces of half-a-dozen assembled smoking journalists. She dragged herself as far away as possible, grabbing metal railings and leaning against them. Her hands slipped uncomfortably, the smell of metal and sweat filling the air. And cigarette smoke. _Gross_.

She panted, a little, trying to recollect her thoughts.

_Of all the god-for-saken places for me to see Emily Fields again, it's my fucking work. _

She remembered Emily. Seeing her face was like a lock clicking open, a door being flung ajar. All the various restrictions she'd enforced in her mind, time after time, had been smashed to pieces one after another. She was engulfed with memories from one single glimpse of her old best friend.

_The day straight after Alison's funeral. Emily running up to her, tears in her eyes, and embracing Spencer in a warm hug, curling into her neck. _

_The school dance. Emily was drunk. Bitter and angry, hazy and at the same time, amusing without trying to be. _

_Camp Mona. Emily emerging with blow-dried, pouffed hair, and Spencer poking it with the eager expression of a child. _

_After Paige's taunt at her. Spencer's vehement promise to "destroy her". She'd known that deep down, even though Emily had said it wasn't necessary, that was something that, at the time, she'd really wanted to see. _

_The swim meet. Emily grinning at her, eyebrows flickering in a loud "Hey!". Their proud hug. _

_Maya's death. Emily, sobbing uncontrollably, being held up by Spencer, who was trying and failing not to cry herself. _

_Their fight-that-wasn't-really-a-fight. Emily's nakedly aggressive face when she shoved Spencer's books down. Their face off, and the awkward silence between them after. _

_Finding Alison's old coat. Spencer had made a sarky comment about Emily's nerves. "I'M NOT SCARED!" Emily had retorted, loudly, eyes flashing. _

_Spencer's quiet respect for her, after that. _

_Emily's constant love for her. "B is far from failing, Spencer." She'd laughed. _

"_B is for bad!" Spencer had whinged. _

_A hill..._

_A hill?_

_That one time on a hill?_

_Oh._

_FUCK. _

_Shit, shit, SHIT!_

Amy was outside now, touching Spencer's shoulder. "Have you been sick?" She asked brusquely.

Spencer turned around, her eyes dull, looking at the people behind her- who were all staring curiously. They coughed, somewhat simultaneously, a pregnant pause dominating the awkward air. "Uh, no." She replied hoarsely.

"Are you going to?"

"M-maybe..."

"Do you want painkillers?"

She did have a throbbing headache. On her left temple- the usual location of her stress pains. This one was going to be a killer. She winced, grimacing. "Yeah."

Amy left her side for two seconds, delving back into the office. Spencer pressed her head against the iron bars and shook it. _What am I going to do?_

Emily would recognize who she was, as soon as she went in.

She'd remember everything. Well, first, she'd remember A, and all the times she went through. Maybe that would bring a spark of affection to her eye first.

And then she'd remember the letter Spencer left her. And the fact that they hadn't talked in six years, because of that goddamn letter, would smack her in the face hard.

And the spark of affection would be replaced with cold clarity and an awkward silence.

She couldn't go back in there. She couldn't face that.

She'd successfully deleted Emily out of her life- a mission in itself- and now here she was again. Innocently smiling at Amy's insane antics. Even having the... the concern to look worried when Spencer got up and left.

Big brown, puppy dog eyes tracing up and down her spine, bolts of lightning creating shivers on the back of her neck.

_She always was so adora-_

_FUCKING BITCH!_

"Poe."

Amy was there with the painkillers. Spencer looked up, eyes wide. Amy's expression was one of pure shock. "You... Headache?"

Spencer's hands were entangled within her hair, bony fingers grasping at her scalp. She'd barely registered the pain it was causing her. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

Amy was silent, leaning against the iron bars, gnawing her lip as she handed Spencer the pills. "So, um, you want water?"

"No, I'm alright."

"Do you want to go home?"

A pause- Spencer thought this over. Claiming sick would make Emily suspicious once she realized who Spencer was. But it would also mean she wouldn't have to see her at work today, and could do quiet research in her flat into the Kristin Lochte thing.

"Um. Yeah. I think so. I'll go check out with... Jerry."

Jerry was the kind-hearted editor who led the investigative journalist team, and therefore, Spencer's boss. His bald patch and penchant for "grandpa" sweaters gave away how old he actually was- but his eyes, twinkling blue, were as sharp as they'd ever been.

Amy winced. "Um, before you do that, he kind of wants to talk to you."

Spencer pulled her forehead away from the bars and frowned. "Now?"

"Yeah. He was by your desk when I got the painkillers, asking where you were. Saying he needed to talk to you."

_Urgh_. "Did he sound... pissed?"

"Nah." Amy remarked casually, shrugging. "Not at all. Just curious. Wonder why."

"I'll find out. Then I'll tell him I'm sick and need to go home." Spencer was thinking out loud.

"Good plan. Do you want a lift back to your place?"

"No, I gotta get my scooter home. But thanks."

"Eh, no problem."

By this time Amy was fully standing, and offering Spencer her hand. She took it, and gingerly got to her feet. Her head was still thumping despite the pills she'd choked down.

Her plan was simple- to see Jerry at his desk as quickly as possible, and then leave without even going near her desk, taking the opposite route out of the room. She'd go home, have time to think up a long term plan, and treat the situation with the mature logic of a dignified adult.

Which she didn't exactly feel like right now. Since she was hobbling past a group of smokers who noiselessly inhaled their ash with tilted, judgemental eyebrows.

Amy headed back to her desk, after telling Spencer five times to call her, and Spencer walked towards Jerry's desk. The old guy was bent over a stack of papers, tutting under his breath, tapping his wire-framed glasses. Spencer cleared her throat politely. "Jerry."

He whipped around with a start. "Oh, Poe! Hi there. How are you?"

"Not so good Jerry, I'm actually feeling a bit under the weather today. I was wondering if I could just go home, to be honest. Think I've come down with the flu."

Spencer lied flawlessly. Jerry's blue eyes softened with concern. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Listen, of course you can go home, but before you do I just needed to tell you something real quick. It's quite important."

"Sure." Spencer nodded, plopping down into the leather seat across from him.

"Well, I need you to do two things for me. The first is- I want you to drop the Kristin Lochte story."

Her eyebrows furrowed in quick argument. He cut across quickly before she could open her mouth. "Yeah, I know you've been working on it, but trust me, what I've got for you is a lot bigger. I'm talking major. You're gonna be working on it for months, it's a hell of a case."

Spencer tilted her head curiously, nodding. "I'm listening."

Jerry turned to his desk, rifling through the sheets scattered across the wooden benchtop, until finally pulling one out. "Ah. You recognize this guy?"

He handed a simple colour profile printout to Spencer. It was of a man's face- a man with a square jaw, dimpled chin, ruffled blonde curls and striking green eyes. It was a face she certainly recognized. The same face had been plastered all over town in recent weeks. He was on billboards, TV, magazines, even the Chicago Sun-Times.

"Yeah, I do. That's Bill Belmont."

Bill Belmont- the nation's Olympic sweetheart. He was a champion weightlifter who'd smashed the world record for lifting heavy things, it seemed to Spencer. He'd also had a previous career in modelling and acting, appearing as a stunt double for Channing Tatum in _21 Jump Street_. The media could not get enough of him.

Jerry thrust his chin towards the picture. "What would you say if I told you I want you to investigate him?"

"I'd say why?"

"A good question. Basically, it's to do with a small personal investigation of mine before I actually got started with newspapers."

It was common knowledge around the workplace Jerry had previously been a police officer before switching to journalism- the rookies called him "Sleuth", but never to his face. His vast collection of police intel had been of obvious use to the paper throughout the years, gaining him a comfy job as a chief editor. "Go on."

"Well, when I worked for the force, when I was just starting out really, I happened across a series of stories from young women that the police had simply archived due to their low interest rating. The reason for this is because these women all had criminal records. Their history with the police is not a good one, and half of the officers they talked to assumed they were lying because of this."

"But the stories were all dated over a similar period of time, all within the same year of each other. And all of them were similarly distressing and hard to read. These women were all raped, they claimed. Brutally. And they all had a similar nature. The guy who did it, in all of the cases, had approached them in a dark alleyway after they'd emerged from a club downtown. He'd dragged them against a wall and raped them."

"These cases were all so similar, I couldn't help thinking, perhaps they all had more things in common then anyone was realizing. Maybe it was the same guy. For the most of them, the police had claimed to have found their man, and he'd gone to jail. Case closed. But the thing was... a couple of women were convinced they hadn't found the right man."

Spencer leaned in closer. Jerry continued. "He was wearing a balaclava at the time, for every case. Which is something a lot of rapists do, so not to be seen. But a couple of women described his eye colour to be completely unusual. Green, they said... but with a brown stripe from his pupil to his outer iris on the bottom of his eye."

His finger jabbed the paper. "Look at those eyes. Don't they match their description?"

Spencer inspected the man's eyes. "Yeah... Now that you mention it."

She'd never noticed the brown stripe before, in any photos of the man she'd seen. But now that she had, she couldn't stop staring at it. "Weird." She mumbled. "But that's just a hunch, Jerry. Do you have any more evidence?"

"I know it's just a hunch." The old journo said patiently. "All I have is the identification of that brown stripe, and the fact that I know Belmont was living in the same area of the women at the time. Which is why I need more evidence, and this is when you come into the picture."

"...You want me to break into police records."

"I didn't necessarily say that, did I?"

But Jerry had a twinkle in his eye. Spencer shook her head with a fond smile. "I thought that was against the law?"

"Not if you have a member of the force with you who can help you get what you need. I have a couple of buddies who've worked down there for years that'll be happy to help. All you gotta do is find the files, see if there's any more information or evidence that it could be Bailey. Report back to me when you're done. Simple job."

"And what if there is no evidence?"

"Then you can write a nice little emotional story on Kristin Lochte."

Spencer raised her eyebrows. "And if there is..."

Jerry's face grew grim. "Then I'm going to need to pull a few strings and find people to talk to, to find witnesses."

Spencer nodded. "I'll be on it tomorrow. I promise."

Her blood was practically singing at the mention of this chance. She was so excited- so _interested_- she was fidgeting in her seat. But Jerry coughed. "There's just one more thing."

She groaned mentally. "Yeah?"

"I'm sending someone else to help you cover the case. Manpower's going to be really necessary in this, and it's going to be too large a story, if my hunch is right, for you to cover by yourself."

Spencer brightened. "Amy?"

The two had worked together on other cases, and Jerry had seen they'd made a fine pair. But, he shook his head. "Good as Amy is, I've got her on something else right now."

"Oh... who then?"

Jerry now was fidgeting in his seat, looking a little embarassed. "I know you're gonna hate me for this, Poe." He mumbled. "But it's really a good idea, or, I think so."

Spencer was silent. Jerry continued. "Since this is a sports story, I thought I could give one of our sports journos a try at the investigative side. And they're the kind of person who needs all the experience they can get."

A cold sweat broke down her back.

_No. No, no, no, no, _please, please _don't say the person I think you're going to say... _

Jerry turned around, and made a beckoning motion with his finger. "You two will work well together." He told Spencer over his shoulder. "She's just a rookie, so I reckon someone experienced as you now can show her the ropes, teach her how we do things around here."

_I'm gonna puke. _

_I swear I am. _

_I can't be doing this. _

_She's going to recognize me._

_Oh my god. _

Emily came strolling towards Jerry's desk with a hesitant smile directed at the pale girl and the wrinkled guy before her. "Hi." She said nervously.

Spencer choked.

Literally, choked.

On her own salivia.

Attractive.

She passed it off as a coughing fit, muffling herself with her elbow, as Emily stared concernedly down at her. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Fine." Spencer garbled between hacked coughs.

Jerry frowned. "Yeah, you did say you were sick, right? I'm sorry I've gone on for so long, I'll finish it up quick. Basically, Emily here- that's your name right? Yeah. She's going to be working with you on this story."

Spencer pulled her head out of her arm with a tired, defeated, angry expression.

_Sod you Jerry. You made this happen. Well, my life is fucked now, thanks very much to my sonofabitch editor, who's ensured I'm working on what could be the biggest story of my life with the girl who I haven't seen for six years because..._

Emily was staring into her eyes. With a slightly puzzled expression. She cocked her head onto one side. "This might sound weird, but do I know you from somewhere?"

_Oh god, here we go, here we go, she's going to realize any minute now-_

Spencer surprised herself by standing and extending her hand to shake. "I d-don't think you, you do. I don't think I-I know you, but, ummm... I was on... TV! As a kid!"

She sounded flustered and awkward. And Emily was most definitely noticing it, right now, judging her, wondering why, her brain going to piece together the picture right this second...

"Oh!" Emily said, interestedly. "What show?"

Every kid's show Spencer had ever watched immediately vanished from her mind.

_Oh. My God._

"Uh, uh, a lot, a lot of shows, I acted h-heaps as a kid." She blathered.

Emily nodded. Waiting for her to go on.

"Blue's Clues!" She cried suddenly, an epiphany, a bolt of clarity in her muddled mind. "Yeah, Blue's Clues! Blue's Clues!"

Jerry was staring at her with a worried expression. "Aw, Blues Clues." She said again, rolling out the vowels.

_I should probably stop saying Blue's Clues._

"Oh, I _loved_ that show when I was little." Emily smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "My dad and I used to sit down and watch the Saturday cartoons whenever his unit was home. Blues Clues was my absolute favourite. I'm pretty sure he got sick of it after time." Her chuckle was light and airy.

And heartbreaking.

Spencer avoided her eye, staring at the ground. "Oh. Yeah."

"But I thought they didn't have kid actors in it? Just like voiceovers for the cartooned characters... I can't remember there being-"

Jerry politely cut Emily off, saving Spencer a nightmare of explaining. "I'm sorry Emily, but you guys can catch up about child TV shows later, OK? Right now y'all have a job to attend. Or Poe here has a home to go to. I'll talk to you guys soon."

"B-bye Jerry." Spencer stammered, trying to act nochalant, and shoved her hands desperately in her pockets, attempting to swagger away like she usually did.

Except out of nowhere, Emily had fallen into step beside her.

And was looking at her.

And smiling with that goddamn, big, beautiful white smile that-

_No._

Spencer realized she'd asked her a question. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, is your name Poe?"

_Oh thank God. She doesn't know my real name. Oh, thank GOD, thank BUDDHA, thank ALLAH, thank AMY DEAR GOD THANK YOU AMY FOR GIVING ME THIS SHITTY NICKNAME-_

"Yeah. That's me." She tried to say casually, tripping over her tongue.

"Is that short for anything?"

"No." Spencer interjected quickly.

Emily looked confused. "I don't mean to be rude, but, uh, really?"

"Yeah, my parents were massive literary nerds." She blathered. "They had two boys before me who they called Edgar and Allen, and then I came along and they couldn't decide what to call me. So they came up with the idea of Poe. Genius. Creativity at it's finest, displayed in my parents."

_That was some terrible bullshitting right there, Spencer Hastings. _

She hadn't meant for Emily to laugh, but she did, shaking her head in amazement. "Seriously? Wow. They must be poetry crazy."

"Pretty much. Their idea of a bedtime story was Shakespeare. King Lear. I had nightmares for weeks on end about eyeless kings."

That story was, in fact, true. The Hastings were determined for their second daughter to continue the overachieving streak their family had honed down to a fine art. Veronica Hastings had sat calmly on the end of little Spencer's bed and recounted to her Ophelia's suicide in Hamlet, Duncan's brutal stabbing in Macbeth, Shylock's _"pound of flesh_" in the Merchant of Venice.

It didn't matter than Spencer could no longer sleep. It mattered she was _getting an education from the very start. _

Emily now looked horrified, her pink lips stretching open in a perfect O. "Wow. I watched Blues Clues and you read about brutal murders."

"Contrasting childhoods." Spencer shrugged stiffly.

Emily gave her a look that seemed to search deep down into her soul, amused eyes crinkled yet solemn at the same time. Spencer looked back at her in utter silence, her eyes involuntarily wide and serious. The world seemed to spin and tilt around them, and yet, they stayed in stillness.

Calm amongst the hectic, frantic, busy life that threatened to scoop Spencer away.

_Has she realized yet? _

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow!" Emily smiled cheerfully, breaking the bubble.

"Uh- yeah! Yeah, I'll see you, soon. Yeah. Tomorrow. Ah-huh."

Emily turned on her heel and left with a friendly wave, nodding across to Amy who was perched on Spencer's desk madly signalling at her. Spencer sighed, watching the dark-haired girl walk away, crossing her arms against her chest.

_How can she do that? She just... radiates peacefulness. _

"EARTH TO POE HASTINGS!"

Spencer whipped around, glaring at Amy, and hurried back to her desk making a shushing motion. "Shut up." She growled, fiercely. "Now."

Amy's eyes were puzzled, slowly narrowing. "Why should I?"

Spencer had a brainwave. "Headache." She murmured, anxiously massaging her temples.

"Oh." Amy snapped straight back to sympathetic. "You _sure _you don't want a lift?"

"Yeah, yeah. No lift. Nah. Need to get the scooter home. Anyways, bye, Amy. See you tomorrow." She garbled, scooping up sheafs of papers desperately.

"See you..."

Spencer dashed off, nibbling her lips, knowing Amy was watching her back. Suspicious as ever. _You really cannot lie to a journalist, can you?_

But that was the least of her concerns right now.

_What am I going to DO?_

**R & R, as ever, guys! I have heaps of time on my hands right now... so the more reviews, the quicker I update! MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HANNUKAH/HAPPY HOLIDAYS to you all :) man, can I tell you, it feels good to be writing again! Tell me what you like, tell me what you don't... I actually have a plan for this story for once in my life. Hahahaha. Hard to believe, I know. Aaaaand I'm rambling. Amy's a new character, so, thoughts? I was thinking she could be the sarcastic comedic funny one to Spencer's serious focused nature. A bit like Hanna, I suppose. Anyways. PLEASE REVIEW!**


	2. Everything's Great

Emily walked home, alone, that day.

It was late November and cold, the hint of snow beginning to dust the rigid roofs of buildings. She wasn't known for poetry, but even here, looking around, she could find clumps of beauty in the frostbitten city.

An icing-sugar sprinkling on top of a car bonnet cake.

Cotton shards clinging determinedly to the sidewalk, despite the efforts of a hundred, a thousand, brisk feet.

Doves' feathers, beginning to waft through the air, landing on hefty woollen clothing, warm cotton gloves.

There was something about snow that made people stop and stare. Already, Emily could see a kid across the street hypnotized by the flakes that were now falling. He cupped his hands in expectance, his father behind him patiently smiling and whispering in his ear.

Her heart ached and she didn't quite know why.

She walked on.

Her mind wandered to her day today, her first day. In all respects it had been a good one, a, a fantastic one. She'd expected to be put on some menial story about croquet or lawn bowls, for her first write up, but instead, she found herself in the editor's office, discussing how she could cover _one of the biggest stories of the year. _

That is, if his hunch turned out to be true.

Emily crossed her fingers in her thick gloves, without realizing she was doing it. She couldn't believe she'd been given such a huge opportunity. Of course, it made her more set, more resolute, to do the best she possibly could.

And she'd only just finished her training at college. A few months ago, she'd made a graduation speech with damp palms, focusing on her dad and mom's faces grinning back at her in the first row. In her apartment, a photo hung simply above her bed of her holding her mortar board above her head with an incredulous expression.

Her mom had taken the photo, before flinging herself upon her stunned daughter, smothering her with kisses to the cheek and gabbled words. "Awh, hun, remember to call every day! We'll miss you so much! I'm so proud of you, Em, my baby girl, you've grown up so much and I just... I'm so proud of you!"

As her mother disintegrated into tears, her father had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. "Hey, hey, give her some space." He'd coaxed, peeling the two apart. "Well done, Emmy. Well done."

Her father's words had been less. But that hadn't made them any less sincere. That night, Emily had skipped the wild college graduation party to have dinner with her two parents, discussing her new life and what lay ahead of her. Their support meant the world to her.

And what a new life did lie ahead of her. She was an Honours student in sports journalism. It felt good just to _think _that. She'd had a menial job in a TV crew for a couple of months, delivering coffee and writing up the odd story for the newscasters, and then, on a whim, applied for the Chicago Sun-Times to be a sports writer.

She was in luck. It was Olympics season, after all, and it turned out the newspaper was desperate for young, up-and-coming talented journalists to bring a new flair.

And she was hired, and was still wondrous at her fortune. It was almost like, and this was veering into pure Zen territory, _fate had wanted her to be on this paper._

She smiled to herself. That sounded like something Aria would more say. And then Hanna would make some sarcastic comment and the two would become entangled in bickering, while Emily would tiredly, but fondly, play the peacemaker.

Her two friends, despite A having disappeared some time ago, were still as close as ever to Emily. She texted, called, or messaged them every day, it seemed. Her flatmate was getting sick of her using up the broadband on three-way Skype calls that went on for hours. She missed them dearly, but being in Chicago was the opportunity of a lifetime. They all knew that.

And the opportunity of a lifetime had been chosen by her, and her alone. She savoured that. A few years ago, growing up in Rosewood, she'd been constantly confused by the person who she was, who she wanted to be. She didn't know what she wanted with her life. And now?

Well. She'd grown up, hadn't she? She'd made her own choices, for once, and she'd loved the way they'd turned out.

Those choices had steered her into a new job, a new assignment, with an odd, mysterious, serious girl called Poe.

She hadn't known what to make of her new co-worker on the first day. She'd seemed flustered and distracted, two traits Emily didn't expect a journalist to have. Especially one as apparently senior as her.

But as they talked later, a halted yet amusing conversation about childhoods, she'd caught a glimpse of Poe's sarcasm, her serious nature, her quick mind, even. She'd decided she was going to like the girl.

After all, who couldn't like someone with those kind of eyes, right?

She'd been struck by them in the small period of eye contact between the two, before they made their goodbyes. Large and hazel, they'd captured her imagination with their curved lashes, swept with a little mascara. They were determined. Driven.

And framed by a spiky fringe swept across her face, unevenly chopped and ever so slightly...

Badass?

Looking into them had felt like... like...

Like something was missing.

And she wasn't sure why.

In fact, she had no idea in hell why.

They'd confused her, those eyes. They'd made her feel for the first time in a long time, a very long time indeed, that she wasn't sure of something again.

But she wasn't quite sure... what she wasn't sure of...

It was almost like they'd made her revert back into her indecisive, constantly worrying and confused teenage self.

She shook her head as she traipsed through the snow, irritated at herself. No, that was impossible. Nothing was missing. She had a dream job, a great apartment, loving family and friends. She had the best life she could imagine.

And no stupid notion of hers about a certain pair of eyes couldn't tell her anything was missing. She was being ridiculous.

And yet...

_I kind of want to see her tomorrow._

Before she could block the thoughts out of her mind, she found her feet scraping against the concrete stairs up into her flat. She blinked and shook her head, shocked by her newly-found surroundings. As if on cue, to herald her sudden plunge into reality, her phone began ringing.

Annoyed, she pulled it out of her bag. _Mom _was displayed in bright letters across the small screen. She jabbed the answer button, feeling slightly guilty that she hadn't called yet. Of course her mother would be dying to know about her first day.

"Hey Mom!" She said chirpily.

"Hi Emmy!" Her mother gushed. "How are you?"

"I'm great, I'm really good." She smiled.

_And I mean it._

_Or am I just trying to mean it?_

"How are you?" She added, after a short pause.

"I'm good! So, how was your first day?"

"It was..." A sigh. "Wow, it was just amazing. You won't believe it."

_I still can't believe it._

"What is it?" Her mother's excitement was obvious even through the phone.

Emily swung the door open of the lobby, and jammed the button for the elevator. "I've been given an amazing chance for a story. The editor must like me or something- if I play it well, it could turn out to be one of the _biggest _stories of the year. I'm not exaggerating in any way."

"Oh my god. Honey, that's amazing! Wow! How fantastic!"

Emily smiled gently at the praise. And then the barrage of questions arrived from her ever-inquisitive mother. "So what's the story on? Why's it so big?"

"I can't tell you." She frowned. "It's only based on a hunch the editor has, but if it's right, it's going to be huge. I'm sorry I can't-"

"Stop apologizing." Her mom said gently. "So, is it just you covering it? Because that's a lot of stress to put onto your shoulders on the first day, and I might question his judgement in that decision since you're only new, no offence in any way, Emmy."

"None taken." Emily replied as she stepped into the elevator, and it began to judder upwards. "No, I'm sharing it with a very... very experienced, other journalist, she's sure to help me on the way."

"She?" Her mother said, a note of curiousity piquing in her voice.

"Moooooom." Emily moaned, embarassed, feeling seventeen again for the second time that day.

"I was just wondering!" She defended, chuckling all the same. Then, "Well, is she pretty?"

"She's a co-worker, Mom. That's it."

"Oh. So she's ugly."

Emily made a strangled sound. "No." She sighed, wearily admitting defeat.

"Aha. So what's her name?"

It was funny to think how much her mother's attitude had changed in the past few years. At first, she'd insisted Emily's sexuality was straight, and that there was no other way around it. Simple. She had to like boys. Black and white.

But, after a harsh confrontation between Paige's father and her mother, she'd had an epiphany, and slowly began accepting the fact that Emily was gay. She'd played nice with her girlfriends. She'd asked questions about them. And over time, as Emily grew older and dated more frequently, her mother seemed to fully accept her daughter was a lesbian.

She now even dared to tease Emily over things like this. And Emily loved it. Although she complained about it and whinged like a seven year old at times, the teasing was her mother's method of support.

Which was something she counted on. Absolutely.

"Poe." She mumbled.

"Mo?" Her mother sounded horrified.

"No, no no Mom. Her name's Poe."

"Po? Like the Tellie-Tubbie?"

"No! Like the poet! Edgar Allen Poe!"

"Oooooh..."

A pause. Then, "That's an unusual name."

"Yeah. Apparently her parents were massive literary nerds, so that's why they called her it."

"Oh, and you found that out from talking to her?"

"Um... Maybe." Emily laughed.

"So you've talked to her and found her pretty! This is good news all around!"

Emily rolled her eyes and realized her mother couldn't see. "I'm rolling my eyes, Mom."

Her mother laughed tinnily, before pausing to listen to something in the background of the call. A man's voice muttered inaudibly. "Alright." Her mother said, returning to the phone. "It's lovely to hear from you, sweetie, but I really have to go, I'm going out for dinner with the Marins."

"Oh! Say hi to Ashley for me!"

"I will do, honey. Have fun in Chicago. Love you!"

"Love you too Mom. Take care."

There was a click, then the hangup tone echoed against her ear. She sighed, and slipped the phone into her pocket. By this time she was at her flat door, which she noticed had a note stuck to it.

_Gone out to grab milk + bread. A voicemail for you. E :)_

Emily unlocked the door and plopped her bag onto the kitchen bench, heading straight for the answering machine. She jabbed the button, hovering expectantly over it. A man's voice coughed politely into life.

"_Hi Emily, it's Jerry here. Just thought that you might need my number for any work-related business, so it's..."_

She grabbed a piece of pen and paper and scribbled down his number, as his voice continues. "_If you have any troubles with the case, feel free to call me. Oh, and before I forget, you'll also need Poe's number. It's-"_

Without even thinking, she was writing it down, blinking furiously to rid the memory of hazel eyes which floated before her own.

"_See you in work tomorrow."_

The machine clicked off. Emily sat in silence.

She typed the numbers into her phone, her fingers barely moving across the keypad, white teeth nipping her tongue.

And then she stood up. No. She'd had enough of being confused. This was all stupid, juvenile stuff. Easily sorted. A simple work call.

She was a work mate. A pretty one, sure, but a work mate. Just a colleague

She pressed a green button and put the phone to her ear.

**Spencer POV**

Her phone rang. A bossy, standard, thrumming ringtone echoing around the small room. Spencer disentangled her head from the pillow.

Arms reached for her. "Ignore it." The boy in the bed pleaded, whining.

Spencer replied shortly: "Work." With a shrug, she pulled her shirt down across her butt, and leant forward to pick the phone up off the table. "Hello, Spencer Hastings." She said firmly.

"Hey." A voice said shyly on the other end, then cleared their throat, abruptly. "Um, it's Emily here. From work."

Spencer's reply froze in her throat. She inhaled deeply, and turned around to the crumpled double bed. A curly-haired man lay in it, looking questioningly at her, tipping his head on one side. He motioned to her. "What?" He mouthed.

Her lips set in a thin line. She pinched the bridge of her nose and walked out of the room. "Oh, hi."

"Jerry gave me your number." Emily said warmly, and Spencer could practically hear her smile nervously down the other end. "I was thinking, are you well enough to work tomorrow?"

"Um... Yeah." She replied, leaning against a wall, her head tilted against the smooth wood. "Yes. I'm feeling better."

"Good!" Emily sounded genuinely happy. "Cause I was wondering, tomorrow, do you want to meet at the police station to check out these files?"

"Not at work?"

"Well, I thought it'd just save some time."

Her voice was a little abashed. Spencer immediately felt awful. "No, no! It's a good idea!" She said quickly. "It's a great idea. I'll be there."

"Ten'o'clock, tomorrow. Okay?"

"Sounds good to me. Just..." She trailed off. "Wait."

"What?" Emily asked, not unkindly, expectant and patient.

Spencer's brain fizzled out completely. She drummed her fingers against the wall, nails tapping hollow. "Erh... Nothing. I'll see you then."

"See you!" She replied brightly, and waited for Spencer to hang up.

Spencer didn't hang up. She waited for Emily to hang up.

Emily chuckled down the phone. "I take it you don't like hanging up first."

"No, I don't!" Spencer laughed, eager for an excuse to explain why she was so reluctant to. The laugh came as freely to her as air, as breathing.

"Well, neither do I."

"Owch, a stalemate."

"A day at work and we're already acting like the soppy couple."

Emily said it teasingly, freely, easily, and it stung so much.

Spencer coughed awkwardly, pausing. "Um, yeah. Well, see you tomorrow. I'll be the first to hang up then."

Emily continued joking, without noticing Spencer's blunt response. "So you're the considerate one in this relationship?"

She was tearing her to pieces.

"That'd be me." Spencer said weakly. "I've always been the... the hopeless romantic."

Emily was about to say something, but Spencer cut her off. "Bye." She croaked, and pressed the hang up button.

Then she slammed her head against the wall, hand curling against the wallpaper. "Shit, shit, shit." She moaned.

_I gave so much away. Any minute now, she'll realize._

But it was true. She always had been the hopeless romantic.

Especially when it came to _anything _involved with Emily.

But funnily enough, not when it came to the handsome boy who peered around the doorframe, seeing Spencer furious slamming herself. "Hey, hey!" He said gently, trying to move her away from the wall. "Spence, what's the matter?"

His name was Daniel. He was twenty-two, muscled and beautiful.

He had black curls and deep brown eyes, a sure smile and tanned brown skin.

He was very, very good at fucking.

Yet he was so wrong.

Spencer peeled herself away from him. "Work call. Bad news."

"How bad? What happened, babe?"

She winced at the "babe". He caught it. "I'm sorry." He whispered, hurt visible on his face.

But it was masked over by a sleazy smile. "Let me apologize." He growled, and leant forward to aggressively kiss her, pressing himself forward.

But she pushed him back. "Not the time, Daniel." She snapped, sliding her phone into her bag.

He looked like a wounded kitten. "It was the time ten minutes ago." He protested.

Ten minutes ago... She didn't want to think about it. Not with Emily's voice still ringing in her ears.

"I need to go home." She murmured, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.

"Spencer..." He trailed off, stricken.

It wasn't easy trying to be friends with benefits with someone who was hopelessly in love with you.

So Spencer felt like utter shit as she walked out the door, with Daniel hanging back, pulling a shirt on with a solemn expression.

He was just a bounce-back, a feel good fuck. And he knew it.

"Bye." She whispered, and slunk away.

She was disgusted and ashamed at herself.

And terrified of seeing her, her, _Emily who roamed her thoughts and could so easily, effortlessly, deliver a killing strike to her with a charming smile_.

So she didn't sleep that night.

**Please review! What do you like, what do you want me to change? Welcome to all suggestions :) happy nearly New Year!**


	3. But You've Changed

**Emily POV**

Emily didn't sleep so well that night either.

She was usually a good sleeper. A great one, even. Ever since A had left her life (or rather, she'd left A's life), she'd found herself being able to sleep easy, without fear of perpetual nightmares. Occasionally she'd get the odd dream as she ventured into blissful slumber, but these would be nonsensical and meaningless.

And for that, she was relieved.

But she didn't sleep. And this was odd for her.

She was lying with her head straight on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, her arms flexed and tucked behind her head, her duvet draped over her stomach.

She was too busy thinking to be consumed by the hazy delirium of mind that sleep offered.

It was mainly about that telephone call.

Poe had answered the call briskly, abruptly, with a sentence Emily knew had been practiced many times with a smooth tongue. But Emily hadn't even listened to her greeting to know this.

She'd been so nervous she'd gabbled "Hi, it's Emily." and coughed, and gone from there.

But something about what Poe had said, despite not hearing it properly, had unnerved her.

She didn't know what it was- oh, the trouble of her stupid, naïve, ears!

Yet sitting here, thinking, breathing deeply in almost a meditative state, had determined one thing for her.

Poe hadn't answered the call with "Hello, Poe Hastings."

She'd answered the call with something else-

Another name-

The journalist had lied to her.

Emily pursed her lips, reviewing this information. Her duvet rose and fell with the rhythm of her breath. She was unsurprised.

And that surprised her.

To lie, you must have something to hide. So, therefore, Poe Hastings had something to hide from her.

She wasn't sure if she should call her Poe anymore. Or Hastings. Either of those two names could be made up.

But if they both were, they were made up solely for Emily. Otherwise, she wouldn't have answered the phone with her real name, if she was hiding the name from more than one person.

She tried to think as to why she'd hide her name, her identity, from her.

It wasn't as if Emily presented any harm, to anyone, did she?

Was it a joke? A prank to play on the new kid?

If so, she wasn't exactly seeing the funny side.

But she still felt like she was trying to catch birds with her bare hands, exploring through the cavernous depths of her mind.

Every now and then she'd get a whisper in her ears, a trickle of a memory, a puff of reasoning, and she'd lunge for it. But, it would always veer away in the nick of time, leaving her empty, with nothing to think of or go on.

It was immensely frustrating. As this happened for what felt like the hundredth time that night, she turned onto her stomach and punched her pillow, swearing under her breath.

All she had to go on were thin wisps of thoughts that were ever elusive. And she had no way to reel them into a proper, sane conclusion.

But, there was always someone to talk to on a night like this, with realizations just beyond her.

She picked up her phone, and hovered over a contact, before pushing the dial button.

On the fourth ring, they picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

Their words came out thick with sleep, but it was hard to mask the enthusiasm behind them. "Oh, Em! Hi!"

A pause. "You do realize it's 1 a.m."

"Ah. Um, yeah." Emily said, picking up her digital clock from her bedside table, and frowning at it. "I have something that's kind of urgent."

The voice didn't sound remotely irritated, but simply sleepy. "Shoot. Go. Vamos."

She sat up in her bed, curling her duvet around her. "You're usually the kind of person who knows their own mind, better than anyone."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Aria replied.

"Do. Because I need help with my mind."

Aria laughed breathily, stifling a yawn. "What's the matter?"

"It's just... I met someone at work today."

"Someone?" Her voice was now curious, interested.

"Yeah. And I thought I knew their real name, and they seemed, really cool, and nice, I guess, and I kinda liked them. So I called them. Today."

"A work call, or a something-else call?"

"A work call." Emily said quickly, hurriedly. "But they answered the phone with a different name."

"Ah-huh." Aria seemed lost by this.

"They told me their name was something, but they answered the phone as something else."

"So you're wondering..."

"If they lied to me. And if so, _why_, and what, what else, what else are they lying about?"

This exploded out of Emily, a sudden confession. She drummed her fingers against the bed, silent. Aria hummed to herself. "Okay. And so why do you need help with my mind?"

Emily groaned. "It's complicated."

"You have my undivided attention."

"I just..." She stood up now, and began trekking around her spacious room, slowly pondering. "I keep feeling like there's something more to this. Something which I've missed, something that will make all of this make sense, once I get it. You know?"

"I _do_ know that feeling. Um. This is a puzzle. So we need to figure out what you've missed."

She heard Aria click a pen on, and the sound of scribbling. "So. She's lied to you, this person, and you're trying to figure out why."

"Yep."

"What was the name she gave you?"

Emily's lip curled a little, embarassed for so blindly believing the name. "Poe Hastings."

Aria's pen froze. There was no sound emitted down the phone, apart from a shallow intake of breath. Emily frowned. "Aria?"

Still nothing. Aria remained quiet. Unknown to Emily, colour had all but fled from the girl's already pale face, and her limbs were unmoving. Her eyes were wide with shock, horror.

She was hunched over the side of her bed, leaning towards her bedside table, her chest brushing against her knees, feeling suddenly nauseous.

Her world had suddenly plunged in an utterly unexpected way, teetered beyond her control.

"Aria." Emily's voice came tinnily out of her phone.

Puzzle pieces were clicking together for her. Synapses making vital connections. Aria let out a long sigh, utterly overwhelmed by her realization. "Oh, fuuuuuuck." She managed.

It wasn't like Aria to swear. Which was the reason Emily now became more concerned than ever. "What, what is it?"

"_Hastings_." Aria said miserably, shaking her head. "Aw, no. I should have known. You go off to work in Chicago for a newspaper. It was obvious. Aw, no."

Emily was utterly confused. "Wait... Do you know who Poe is?"

"Yeah. And I'm pretty sure you do, too. Unless you've forgotten."

Silence dominated the call. Emily stared into space, her tongue heavy in her mouth. Her heart thumped ominously in her chest, like the drumbeat for impending doom.

"I'm not going to like what you're going to say next, am I?" She whispered hoarsely.

"No."

She remained silent. Aria took in a breath, and remarked, "I wouldn't blame you for forgetting. It's been six years since you last saw her."

**Spencer POV**

She was waiting by the doors of the police station, punctual as ever, right on the dot of ten. Her breath made fog in the bitter chill of the morning, her black boots encrusted with shards of snow. She stamped her feet to get rid of the cold, delving her hands within deep pockets.

She was nervous. Her palms were disgustingly clammy, her breath irregular. She couldn't meet the eye of any of the cops trotting in and out of the station, some giving friendly nods to her. She was utterly consumed by the ramblings of her mind.

So when someone yelled, "Spencer!" across the street, she missed it at first.

But the yell came again. And this time she noticed it. Her head jerked upwards, she turned and stared into the street, a mystified smile gracing her face.

Which quickly disappeared, once she realized who was yelling at her.

**Emily POV**

She stood on a snow covered pavement, her arms crossed, staring hopelessly at her old best friend with dark, soft eyes.

"Spencer." She said again. Only, she didn't yell this time, merely say it. Everything else seemed to die in her throat.

Spencer stared back at her for approximately 3 seconds. Then, she dropped her head, and sighed, sticking her hands into her pockets.

It was almost like she appeared resigned to her fate.

Which, Emily thought, as she walked towards her, was not very _Spencer Hastings _of her.

Cause the Spencer she knew? Well, she'd fight her way out of anything, anywhere, that didn't suit her exact needs, until everything was perfect for her.

_Is that the Spencer you know? Or the Spencer you remember?_

Six years. People change.

"Hey, Em." She muttered, her shoulders slumping.

There was a little bench tucked within the side of the police building's stone patio, and it was this Spencer decided to throw herself down upon, as Emily scraped the snow off her shoes and sat next to her. There was an awkward silence for a few minutes.

Emily shrugged the bag off her shoulder, peering concernedly within it, before producing a flask and handing it to the sullen girl beside her. "I don't know if that's the stuff you like, still." She said quietly. "But I remember that you used to get me to make it, time after time, when I worked in the cafe."

_A flash. Spencer with her head down on the coffee bar, long hair flopping over the red surface. "Uuuuurghhh." She groaned. _

"_You can't sleep there." Emily informed her, even as she levered a batch of brownies out of the oven. "I have customers to serve."_

_Spencer suggested the customers could "do something anatomically impossible with themselves."_

_Emily rolled her eyes, peeling her oven mitts off. She rapped the bench. "Come on. You can sleep on the couch until I get off work."_

_Spencer blearily pulled her head off the bench and scowled. "If I told you," she mumbled, "That I'm convinced Melissa's poisoned me, would you think that I was strange?"_

"_No, I'd ask you to come round and look after my small children."_

_Spencer smirked weakly. "But I know she has. They'll find proof when they cut open my body in the autopsy. Unless an antidote is found within twenty-four hours..."_

"_The antidote's coffee, isn't it."_

"_No. Yes. Maybe. Aw, please, Em, I'm dying."_

_Emily sighed, and shook her head at her best friend. "Coming right up."_

_But as she handed Spencer the coffee, five minutes later, she'd waved away the note she'd offered. _

_Like she always did. _

_Because the truth was she'd make as many coffees as she damn well needed, if it made Spencer happy, if it made her _stick around _for as long as she possibly could. _

Oh, and then she'd left.

Emily winced, and looked up, blinking the sudden hurt out of her eyes.

Spencer took the flask, and held it tight in her numb hands, shooting Emily a look of pleasant surprise. "Yeah..."

"Yeah?"

"I still like that."

"I'm glad." Emily said simply. "I'm glad."

There was a silence, again. Spencer stared at the peace offering, chewing her lip. "I knew you were going to confront me, sooner or later." She blurted.

"But were you going to keep lying until then?" Emily snapped.

Spencer practically flinched. Emily blinked at her.

_It's not like Spencer Hastings to flinch at what anyone says. Let alone _me_._

Then, "Yeah." she said thickly, nodding.

Emily's mouth flickered downwards. She decided to change the subject. "Poe, huh?"

"It is, actually, my nickname here."

"Because of the entire poet thing, or because you remind someone of the Tellietubbies?"

"Poet. Apparently I'm moody and depressed but clever."

Emily raised her eyebrows. "Accurate."

_A flash. _

_An over enthusiastic church going kid, thrusting a flyer into Emily's face. "Hi!" She squeaked. "Come join our youth group! We assemble on Thursday lunchtimes in the cafeteria."_

_Emily smiled weakly yet politely, and picked up the flyer. "Thanks." She murmured, and turned to go. _

_The kid wouldn't leave her alone though, dragging on her arm. "Oh, please come! We discuss all kinds of things, it's really a lot of good old fun. Are you already a follower of Jesus? Have you been baptised?"_

_Emily shrugged, and tried to tear herself away, but without success, trying to explain she had to go. "Oh, do you take communion regularly? What's your favourite Biblical story? We'd love to hear it, honestly. I think that God-"_

_Emily, frowning, tried to pull away again, until she felt another pair of hands grab her. _

"_What's happening?" Spencer asked behind her, curious. _

"_Ah, nothing, Spence, we gotta get to class-"_

_But there was no stopping Church Kid now. "Oh, hello! Would you like to join our youth group too?"_

_A flyer was forced with equal strength into Spencer's hands. She looked at it distastefully. "Hm."_

"_Thursdays, cafeteria at lunch time. I promise you'll get a lot more than you-"_

"_Religion," Spencer interruped icily, "my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry."_

_Church Kid fell eerily silent. Spencer cocked an eyebrow. "Thanks, but no thanks. C'mon Em." _

_She walked off, her hands nonchalantly in her pockets. Emily jogged after her. "Did you make that up on the spot?" She asked, wondrously. _

"_You give me too much credit. No, it's a quote from Poe."_

_Emily's blank face was suffice for Spencer to continue. "Edgar Allen Poe. If you like, I could lend you some of his works, he was truly a great-"_

"_Thanks." Emily said, with a final note, "But no thanks."_

_There was no mistaking the fond nature of Spencer's smile. _

But the smile wasn't fond enough to stick around.

Emily swallowed down the hurt, once again.

"But yeah." Spencer said clearly, taking a sip of the coffee. "I knew you were going to find out soon enough. So I made a plan."

"A plan?"

_This is much more the Spencer I _know.

"Yeah. Once I realized I'd answered the phone with _Spencer Hastings_, I realized that you'd know. So. A plan was made."

"And what was it?"

Spencer turned her face to her, the shockingly familiar hazel eyes beneath the alien spiky fringe. "To do pretty much what we're doing now. To sit, and talk... about things. And here, face to face. Not over a phone call."

Emily nodded, and Spencer continued. "The problem is with phone calls that you can't see the other person's face."

_A flash._

_A desperate phone call. _

_Emily was sitting on her bed on a bright summer's day, shaking. _

_Her deft hands tapped over the keys, raising the phone to her ear, wishing, hoping, _praying...

"_Come on, come on..." She begged to no one._

_And to her surprise, the phone rang. _

_The buzz in her ear startled her. She held her breath._

_And the click and sudden silence indicated someone had picked up._

_She started speaking before she'd even realized she was. "Spencer. Spence. It's me."_

_Silence. _

"_Oh my god, where are you? What are you doing? Please, just, just come back now, I-I can't believe you're doing this, Spence..."_

_Silence._

"_You're my best friend. Please come back. I need you." Her voice nearly broke with this realization. "We can talk about the letter, we can agree upon anything you want, just please, please come back."_

_Silence._

"_Don't do this." Emily pleaded. "You can't do this, you can't just walk out of my life because of this. We can talk about it, I promise, everything is gonna get sorted out. Just... come back."_

_Silence._

"_Please." She said finally, a tear spilling down her cheek. "Spencer."_

_A deep, rattling breath echoed down the other side._

_Emily fell silent, praying for the girl on the other end to say something. _

_And then the disconnect tone blared in her ear._

What Emily did next shocked Spencer. Shocked herself.

"You bitch." She muttered, venom scarring her mouth.

Spencer blinked, and opened her mouth, her eyebrows crumpled, but Emily interrupted her. Out of nowhere, words began spewing out of her mouth. "No. No. Don't start talking over me. You left me. You walked off without me, walked out of my life without a proper goodbye. Do you have any idea how much that hurt?!"

"Em, I-"

"You were my best friend, Spencer! I needed you! There were so many times that I needed you, and you just walked off out of my life like you couldn't care-"

"The problem wasn't that I didn't care-"

"You didn't care enough to stick around!" Emily spat, her eyes flashing. "That was the problem!"

People were staring now. But it was Spencer's turn to get started. "The problem was that I cared _too much_!" Her voice rose as she stared at Emily, her gaze unwavering and hard. "The problem isn't that I was selfish in leaving! The problem was that you made me feel like it was the _only_ solution!"

"You weren't _selfish?!_" Emily stormed. "You never said anything about liking me, and when I got a girlfriend who made me truly happy, you ran away!"

"I did say, everything! I told you from the start of it all and you said you weren't damn interested!"

"I assumed your feelings had faded once you started _dating _Toby, and telling me all the time how _in love with him you were! _And then, for me assuming you were happy, you fucking ran away."

Spencer stood up, scowling furiously, and now spoke in a low voice which emanated danger. "So would you have preferred me to tell you how I felt? For me to be humiliated all over again as you shut me down, time after time?"

"If you told me you liked me I could have-"

"I DIDN'T LIKE YOU!" Spencer yelled, out of nowhere. "I LOVED YOU!"

Emily shut her mouth.

"Don't you remember how it feels to be in love with someone who doesn't love you back?" Spencer said bitterly.

_Oh, I know what you're getting at. _

Emily must have visibly blanched, because Spencer continued. "I bet you wanted to run, sometimes, right? You wanted to just get out, and get away, and forget all about her. Forget about her hurting you. Just wanted to run away..."

She was hurt now. Yes, she was. Spencer had hit a nerve and she knew it. Her hands shook.

_I can't believe you just said that._

"Yeah." She said, evenly. "Yeah, I did. But I didn't. Cause, you know why? If I had run away..."

And now she stood up, keeping constant eye contact. "... I would have never become firm friends with you, Aria and Hanna after she died."

Spencer's face twisted in a cry of outrage, but Emily continued, shrugging casually when she was burning inside with misery. "And I thought that our friendships were worth so much more than whatever I felt. So. You made your decision. I made mine."

They both knew each other like a book. Their hopes, their dreams, their goals, after all these years.

They knew each other's strengths.

And each other's weaknesses.

And therefore, they were the perfect harbringers of destruction for each other.

Spencer just stared as Emily walked away with her back turned to her.

She didn't look back once.

So Emily never saw the pale, frustrated girl lean against the brick police station wall and drive her fist into it hard, swearing blue murder under her breath.

But Spencer never saw a single tear track slowly down her old best friend's cheek, before it was carelessly wiped off with a thick mitten and a loud sniff.

_She's changed so much._

**Footnote: Apologies to anyone who's Christian and reading this, the character of the "Church Kid" does not symbolize my views on any religion whatsoever and I don't mean to stereotype anyone! **

**Meanwhile, thank you so much to all those who review! You have no idea how much it makes my day reading your comments. They mean the world to me. Just wanted to say I also take any and all suggestions into consideration, and if you have any of those or any questions about this story or any I've written, feel free to PM me :) happy holidays to all! **


	4. Splintered Memories

**Spencer POV**

_It was just another winter's day. _

_She'd invited Emily round to hers for a little while, maybe to spend the night. The two of them hadn't hung out together for half as long as she'd have liked, lately. They had decided over a phone call that a day with just the two of them would be great. Fantastic. Refreshing._

_One-on-one time, Spencer had called it, a teasing lilt to her voice. Mano a mano._

_Instead of stereotypically staying indoors, eating popcorn and watching chick-flicks, the two had decided to go on a walk somewhere. After all, sitting watching a movie wasn't the best starting point for the discussions they wanted to have. And it would be all too easy for Melissa or Spencer's parents to eavesdrop. _

_So, the two walked and talked for what had felt like hours. They veered away from the town, for "risk of being overheard or seen". Spencer had claimed this was to avoid A, but really, she just wanted to be as far away from anyone she knew as possible._

_Apart from Emily._

_And they weren't exactly discussing extremely covert things in the first place. They were in fact, having, a good old bitch. It cannot be understated how important this is to teenage girls. Every now and then, everyone needs to get these things out of their system. _

_And who better to listen than a faithful best friend?_

"_Noel Kahn needs to be neutered." Spencer said vehemently, her index finger rising and dipping to make her point clear. "He's a danger to the entire female population unless he is. I don't care about if he's hot or not- that's no excuse to go around acting like he's God's gift to vaginas."_

"_He just hits on _you_." Emily said patiently. "Whereas for me, it's a full blown offer to attempt to turn me straight."_

"_Did he say that?" Spencer's voice almost squeaked with horror._

"_I think his exact words were "Oh, you think you're gay now, but wait till you have a ride on my buckin' bronco."_

"_He literally nicknamed his penis the bucking bronco."_

"_Oh no. No, that was just a reference point. I've heard he's started calling it the Rosewood Lollipop now."_

_Spencer screwed up her face in disgust. "Cause all the girls want to- ew!"_

"_Yep. I don't understand why or how he keeps getting girlfriends."_

"_He's such an asshole. And yet they feel privileged to be with him."_

"_They probably give him money after sex or something. He must have at least 20 different STDs."_

"_The Rosewood Lollipop is probably green and chlaymdia flavoured."_

_Emily laughed and nodded fervently, before gazing around her, a smile still etched on her face. "Let's stop here." She said abruptly._

_Spencer halted. "Why?" She asked, quietly curious._

"_The view's nice."_

_They were standing above a rocky outcrop, jutting out from the hill they were walking up. In fact, the view _was_ nice. A small river babbled beneath the sheer drop outcrop, surrounded by jagged scars of boulders dotting the scrubby grass. Beyond, the hill slid down into dense trees, blanketing the view of the hill from the rest of the world. Spencer had liked that._

_They had sat there and talked, and talked, and talked, as the sun cheerfully shone down upon them in a flawless, shimmering sky, irregular for a winter's day. Neither of them could really remember what they had talked about, any more. _

_But it was important. They could remember that much._

_They'd arrived at the topic of Hanna and Aria. And Emily had said, with a mock-grumpy tone, "While they're off having boyfriends you and me are going to run an old lady cat farm. Is that clear?"_

"_Crystal. We have to keep at least 25 though."_

"_26. You know how dear Sir Flufflepants is to my heart."_

_Spencer laughed, lying back, her hands behind her head as she gazed into the surprisingly azure sky. "Yech. They're probably kissing Caleb and Ezra right now, as we speak."_

"_Being cute couples and looking into each other's eyes and, and not finishing sentences and giving each other _flowers_." Emily continued, spitting out the word flowers like it was the word arsenic or rats. _

_Spencer's long fingers skimmed over the grass, alighting upon a single daisy. She uprooted it, and flopped onto her stomach, looking into Emily's eyes as she lay beside her. "Em, I..." She said huskily, daintily holding the daisy in front of her. _

"_Oh, so we're being a cute couple now, are we?" _

_Emily sounded amused, a smile tweaking the corner of her mouth. "Yes." Spencer replied firmly. "Let's face it, we're both not dating anyone else at the moment."_

"_True." Emily said. She inched closer to Spencer, their bare arms brushing._

_Spencer smiled, and twisted her head to lean onto her best friend's shoulder. "God, we're sad."_

"_No we're not. We're a cute couple. Cute couples aren't sad. Cute couples are cute."_

"_What's my mom gonna say when I bring you home for dinner?" Spencer joked. _

_"She's going to say, what a catch."_

_Spencer laughed again, the sun dancing across her face. She raked a hand through her hair. "This is going to sound weird and all..."_

"_What?"_

"_But I do miss being in a relationship. Damn, I even miss kissing."_

_Emily stared into space for a while, frowning. "Yeah, me too." She muttered. _

_There was a silence. Spencer shot Emily a sideways glance. "You're lonely." _

_Emily nodded, with a grimace, like she hated hearing it. "And so are you."_

"_Forever alone together."_

"_No, we're a cute couple. I told you."_

_And Emily picked up Spencer's thin, bony hand that lay next to her, and kissed it. _

_Spencer blinked. She turned onto her side and looked at Emily, puzzled. "That _was _cute." She said grudgingly. _

_Emily smiled at her. She was lying against the grass, her hair cascading out onto the green stems. "We _are _cute."_

_Spencer raised her eyebrows._

_And she had an idea._

_It was stupid, and weird, and she didn't even know why-_

_She was even thinking-_

_But she-_

_She was going to-_

_She was-_

_She just-_

_Had to-_

_She leant in to kiss Emily's cheek, smiling slightly, and not having the faintest ability to explain why. _

_She pulled away, seeing Em's eyelids flutter open. _

"_Were you closing your eyes?" Spencer asked, her face scandalized. _

"_No!" Emily looked surpised, but embarassed._

"_You _so _were, I saw you."_

"_I can't help it, okay, I like cheek kisses!"_

_Spencer grinned cheekily. "Even from me?"_

"_Even from you." Emily admitted, blushing and pouting as she tried not to. _

_Spencer laughed freely, staring up at the sky. Emily scowled at her. "Shut up." She begged. _

"_No. I don't feel like it."_

"_I'll make you." She said, in a voice that was attempting to be threatening._

"_Oh?" A dimple appeared._

"_Mmmhmm." Emily affirmed, glaring._

"_Feel free."_

_She leant up and softly kissed Spencer's cheek. _

_And-_

_Oh-_

_Jesus-_

_Spencer shook her head, dizziness surrounding her. "I'm still not shutting up." She whispered. _

_Emily tilted her eyebrows. "Oh, so you want me to kiss your cheek more?"_

"_I think _you _want _me _to kiss your cheek more."_

"_Nooooo." Emily protested. "I don't."_

_Spencer leant over her once again, and Emily, giggling, squirming, pushed her face away. "Noo, noo, noooo!"_

_Their faces hovered over each other for a second, Emily laughing, Spencer smirking, and both slowed to a stop, staring at each other. _

"_You're an idiot." Emily told Spencer, shaking her head slowly. _

"_I've been described as many things, but never an idiot." Spencer replied._

"_But you are one. It's about time someone told you."_

_Spencer stuck out her tongue, childishly. And then there was a silence._

_Her heart was thumping a little-_

_Only a tiny bit-_

_Not really anything noticeably-_

_I mean it was just-_

_Exertion and-_

"_Spence." Emily said._

"_Yeah?"_

"_I..."_

_Spencer focused, and then looked down, as if she was just acknowledging where she was. "Oh. Sorry," She said, rolling off._

"_No, it's not that." Emily said, still amused. She opened her mouth and said something but-_

_Spencer didn't hear- _

_She was just staring, feeling-_

_No it wasn't-_

_She was just feeling weird-_

_Maybe she was sick-_

_That _was not-

_No-_

_She sat up and took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Her hands were shaking. _

"_You okay?"_

"_Y-yeah. Fine. No worries."_

_But no-_

_She knew what it was. _

_And she knew-_

_That it-_

_Wasn't new-_

_That it-_

_Only came when-_

_Oh, shit. _

_Emily was watching her, carefully. "Spence." She said quietly._

"_Yep?"_

_She shuffled next to her, looking typically concerned. "What's the matter?"_

"_Nothing." Spencer said firmly. _

_No-_

_She did _not feel_ that-_

_That was _stupid-

_And she didn't-_

_Oh God she did._

_Oh._

_Fuck._

_No._

_Why?  
She was... she wasn't-_

_But was she?_

_Frustrated, she bit her lip hard, almost wanting to taste blood. She felt Emily's eyes on her. "I'm alright, Em."_

_Emily smiled wanly. "No. You're not. I know when you're alright. You're distracted."_

_She couldn't-_

_But she did._

_But she knew she did._

_And she already hated it-_

_Because-_

"_I'm tired. That's all."_

_The words fired out of her mouth, alien, like someone was operating her lips but her brain wasn't giving the command. Emily at least looked slightly satisfied with this. But it was her who chose to change the subject. _

_They'd talked a little while more, until Spencer felt fit to burst, until her lips had become cracked and sore. She bit her nails, her hands, brushed her hair with her fingers, until she ran out of nervous tics. Her stomach flip flopped. _

_And she hated it. _

_And then suddenly, again, she found herself speaking while wishing she wasn't, more words dribbling over her lips and into the air while a voice inside of her was screaming NO-_

"_Em."_

_Emily looked to her, curious. "Yeah?"_

"_I..." Her heart was thumping too much to bear. _

_Emily frowned. "I really don't think you're okay right now."_

"_No! I am!" Blather began frothing out of her mouth, insanity that made no sense, that she wished she wasn't saying but it was suddenly out in the open and raw and real and-_

"_Ifiwastodosomethingwouldyoub ecreepedoutbyit?"_

_Emily blinked. "Sorry, what?"_

_This was agonizing for Spencer. She winced, and open her mouth again. "If I was to do something..." her voice was dry and quiet now- "Would you be creeped out by it?"_

_Emily's face turned thoughtful and serious. "Well, it depends. If you were to lick my feet I would be creeped out."_

"_Ew. No, I definitely don't want to do that."_

_A smile lifted her face, made her eyes glow. "So what do you want to do , then?"_

_A masterplan suddenly flashed to Spencer's mind. She nodded a little to herself. "Umm..." She murmured._

_And then she leant forward once again, putting her and Emily's face close, so she could smell her shampoo-_

_And-_

_Her-_

_Soap-_

_And-_

_God-_

_Fuck- _

_She'd meant to go for the cheek-_

_THE GODDAMN CHEEK-_

_But here she was-_

_Hovering-_

_In the wake of a mental battle-_

_And Emily was staring back at her-_

_Looking-_

_Looking-_

_Surprised._

_Oh God._

_Spencer nearly pulled back-_

_Pulled away-_

_It wasn't-_

_But Emily's eyes suddenly flickered closed._

_And she tilted her head, almost imperceptibly-_

_And Spencer knew._

_She got it._

_And she leant in, and gently-_

_So gently-_

_She couldn't do anything more-_

_And suddenly it was happening._

_And her stomach was surging and her hands were shaking and she couldn't, couldn't believe it, couldn't handle it-_

_It wasn't real. It couldn't be._

_But it was. _

_And it felt fucking amazing-_

No-

Don't-

You-

Dare-

Spencer was curled against the window, slamming her head rhythmically against the wall.

Don't-

Think-

About-

That-

She was shaking. All over. Her shoulders jolted with the impact, with her body's tremors, and she couldn't-

Couldn't breathe-

Her breath rasped in and out of her throat, making her feel nauseous, dizzy-

She'd been crying. For too long. She couldn't breathe in without a hiccupy sob, a choked bawl-

And every time she thought of her, she couldn't-

Couldn't stand it. Couldn't take it.

She was too miserable to even describe.

And angry.

And lonely.

And sad.

And she was sick-

Sick of feeling like that-

When Emily-

So obviously-

Didn't give a-

_She probably doesn't even remember._

_She's kissed too many girls since then._

It was such a stark contrast, it made her heart hurt.

There was the sun-kissed past, with the hazy colours of gold and silver strewn through them. The beautiful mist of her memory shrouding everything in brightness.

And then, the cold, empty, dark present. With simply her cradling her head and trying not to cry again. With mascara streaking her cheeks, her pale cheeks, _cheeks that were once kissed-_

_No._

_Stop it._

But she couldn't stop. And that was the entire problem.

If she'd been able to stop, her life would have been a lot different from what it was. She'd have a boyfriend. Could even be married. She would have never have left her friends in Rosewood.

She could have even been happy.

But she couldn't. And she wasn't.

The sound of her, finally, defeated, thumping her head into the wall again, was remarkably like the sound of a nail being hammered into a coffin.

_**This chapter just needs a big sign at the top saying ANGST AHEAD BEWARE. Sorry this has been so long coming, I've been on holiday for ages. If this seems like a filler, that's cause big stuff is planned in the next chapter! Lots of love to you all, hope you're enjoying your new year, and as always, PLEASE REVIEW! x**_


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